Disclaimer: I do not own the characters or the storyline. This is only my take on a canon scene.

They have come for intelligence regarding the Bulldog, and now they will leave with that intelligence. It had been enough, at least - from what she has gathered given bits and snatches of conversation around her - to inform them of the location of Braddock's camp. She is sure that they will find something there, regardless of who might ( or might not. ) be there at the time they do go. Perhaps Haytham himself has formed the same idea that she has: to head out to the camp as soon as they leave the tavern, lest they miss out on another possible lead. They must know what Braddock's plans are before they can even think of shaping their own.

Their path is clear - the door is in sight. Kaniehtí:io sticks only a small few feet from the man with whom she has begun an alliance. Respectfully, she maintains that distance as they make their way towards the door, and merely observes the movement of his many articles of clothing ( the hat, the hair, the cape. ); with regards to her own safety, she keeps closer to him than she might otherwise do. The men in the tavern are drunk silly with liquor, and she does not wish to become a target of their nasty words and actions, to which she has so often been a victim.

But they have nearly just made it to the exit - Haytham with his guarded arm reaching for the handle - when a gruff voice scrapes its way through the air and catches both of their attentions.

"Oi! Where you goin', cully?"

Ugly and dull, it harbors no invisible edge that might pierce her anger. Yet her anger surfaces, flaring from her chest up to the back of her throat; she has to swallow it back down before she says something that might put them both in terrible light. Only then, when she is safe from her emotions, does she turn around to see who it is that has spoken.

She could have guessed: a man, clad in red, stares keenly and unkindly at Haytham - ah! But she had thought, after the short pause in which she had registered the voice, that it had been directed towards her. She is so accustomed to troubling outbursts directed towards her that she had instantly categorized the prying question as a remark towards her. And yet, watching the group of armed men now, she determines that that is not the case at all: it is Haytham they watch. Why?

The aforementioned man himself seems confused. As she looks back towards him, he takes a moment to turn his head halfway back towards the door - an gesture of obvious confusion -, and then, again, his gaze falls on the threat. She can even see him tilt his head almost curiously, and must force herself from allowing a smile onto her lips.

"Me?"

"No - the other cock robin."

Whatever impulse of a smile she had had suddenly disappears. Again comes her instinct to strike the man down with her silver tongue, and again she quells it with a swallow. Again she waits for Haytham to speak up, lest she does snap.

"Well, I, uh..." Again he turns to look back at the door. "I was leaving."

There's a laugh in his voice that strikes urgency into her heart. No, no! cries the heart. We must go! There is no time for wordplay now!

"Oh? And now?"

"Well, now..." He turns back yet again; there's a shift in the atmosphere as well as his stance - at the ready. In her mind, the native groans. "I'm going to feed you your teeth."

It is not only the atmosphere that has changed in the tavern: as a matter of fact, it now comes to her attention that absolutely everything has fallen silent. Everyone has now stopped their conversation to listen in on the verbal quarrel ( the soon-to-be physical spar. ), which she finds only typical human nature. She would love to find some reason to scorn the men here, but she knows that those in her own village would react the same way. Now, the smile returns, and now she allows it to touch her lips. typical human nature, for Haytham to be so ready to fight, but she, on the other hand, will stay out of the contention. Her presence here is already enough to cause issue.

As she slips past the men, she glances towards Haytham, her eyes regarding him almost teasingly. "And you were worried I was going to be the problem?"

He shoots back a quick glance - one whose emotions she is unable to read, so fleeting had it been. She merely turns away, smirk settled dryly on her face as she snakes past the distracted men and moves behind the bar. Nobody pays her much attention, at any rate; all eyes are riveted on the action.

The action that has already started, she realizes once she turns back around. She registers the cheers and jeers before the sight of one redcoat already on the ground, writhing in pain. The others have surrounded Haytham in a fashion predictable to most fistfights, flanking his sides. The one her partner has focused on stands before him, bouncing on his booted feet and seeking an opening.

An opening of which he tries to take advantage, and fails desperately, for the moment he decides to take a swing at Haytham, the latter has already ducked and retaliated, swinging his arm around to catch the vulnerable arm. The redcoat reels, and in that time, Haytham has already driven his knuckles into the side of his jaw. WHUMP - the redcoat falls.

Half have already been felled, and the fight has barely started. She can't help but smile at the success. He is good: very good.

Even better when he turns around and takes the initiative, clocking the closest redcoat in a random attempt at a swing. The latter staggers back, but does not fall; his ally, however, takes advantage of Haytham's opening and strikes right as he is recovering. She flinches as if she herself is the one being struck; the blow is audible even over the raised voices of the onlookers.

But Haytham ( bless his endurance, of which she has already grown fond. ) only lurches for an instant before he catches himself again. The other redcoat has regained his balance. And so do the three men return to their circling, and so do Kaniehtí:io's nerves begin their nervous fluttering in the pit of her stomach. She can hardly stand still, at least, fingers tapping on the table with anxious impatience, her weight bouncing from foot to foot. She is both worried for him and quite excited - all the heightened emotion in the air has permeated her flesh and caused even her to become agitated and roused with emotion.

Very soon, the wounded redcoat goes down - Haytham ducks beneath his blow and hooks an arm around his abdomen, ramming him into the table behind him with so much force that the thing snaps in two and goes down with the man. She must wince at the move, so painful does it look.

Then again comes the smart redcoat's move. He throws his fist at the same place that he had one struck, and it again connects at Haytham's cheek. She can hear him grunt now, and knows he must now feel some sort of searing pain. Like before, he only staggers back for a quick moment ( but in that moment she can see a hand flinch towards his cheek. ) before straightening back up again.

The two men regard each other cautiously. Neither strike for several moments, both too clever to break out of the focused trance. The fight has transformed, in her eyes, into a beautiful dance - both men move gracefully across the floor, through the excited air, aware only of each other. Haytham takes the form of a lithe cougar; she can only lean on the counter, fingers curling as she watches the spectacle before her. The predator will make no false move in this round: he will remain with claws bare and at the ready.

And so he does, until at last the redcoat can stand it no more. A quick beat - the man lunges for the kill, ducking excellently before the execution; the beast is too smart for that, and likewise counters with a cunning dodge before his claws come out to deliver the finally blow. Haytham's palm connects with the top of the man's head, pushing it down: at almost the same moment, his knee works in tandem, moving oppositely.

CRUNCH - the man's nose, and perhaps some of his cheek, as well. He, too, falls.

Just like that, the tension in the air disappears. The fight is over now, and Haytham has come out victorious. The adrenaline from her veins begins to drain, her heart begins to slow, and she slips back around the bar to follow him to a seat nearby.

It is no wonder his hand had flinched towards his cheek earlier, for now she can see the blood decorating it. And she cannot help but observe that for him; his calm expression contradicts the wound. Is he not aware of it? "You're hurt."

"Oh -" A quick lift of his hand to touch his cheek and a quick glance down at his fingers. "- it's nothing."

No matter what, it is still a wound, and no infection must come of it. Without a word in response, Kaniehtí:io reaches over the side of the countertop, groping blindly for anything that might stop the flow of blood from his cheek. She has always seen the tenders reach down here to place half-empty bottles into storage, and soon enough she does find one. Pulling it up, she sets it on the countertop and first reaches for a nearby cloth before dousing it in the strong-smelling liquid.

"Here..." The Kanien'kehá:ka woman reaches over to press the cloth to his cheek. "This should stop the bleeding."

The man looks visibly shocked for only a split second before his expression returns to normal. She has her eyes set on the cloth for a good amount of time, suddenly all too aware that his gaze rests on her face. Carefully, she dabs the edges of the cloth at the blood, both wiping what she can from his skin and stifling the flow that escapes the wound.

When she finishes, she continues to look at the cloth instead of the man, pulling her hand back and lowering it back down. The white is stained with crimson - and right now, she finds that small fact very fascinating.

"That wasn't necessary."

She sets the cloth aside, finally looking back up into Haytham's face. He isn't angry or agitated, as she has thought he might be: no, he seems quite the opposite. In his eyes is calm, and perhaps even some gratefulness at what she's done. Without meaning to, she glances at his wound, checking it on compulsion. She must make sure that it will not cause him any more trouble.

"... But thank you."

Her own eyes almost glow at the realization; they certainly soften. She had been truly worried for him ( no matter how much she denies herself that truth. ), and to better his hardship is satisfying - and rewarding. very rewarding, if she is allowed another few moments to gaze into his eyes, for they seem to pull her in of their own accord and trap her gaze. The eyes are the most revealing features about a person: they reveal truths and emotions the host might not wish to reveal. And she hopes, one day, that she might be able to share his secrets and -

"We should move on." Forcing her gaze away from him, Kaniehtí:io, in a sudden fit of self-consciousness, stands from her seat and begins to move away. She cannot allow herself to become distracted in emotions she has never before allowed herself the luxury of feeling - not even the men of her village have attracted her curiosity as Haytham does, and she knows that what she feels now is forbidden and never to be acted upon. They are purely partners in the plot to kill the Bulldog: that is all. "Meet me at Braddock's camp when you're ready."

Her eyes hover over him one last time before she finally tears them away and turns. In moments, she has cleared her mind of those vulnerable thoughts. They can wait: forever, if they must.